If you with wit and patience reach my chest
And veer in left, be wary of your find...

Confession, me? Could I repent my time
And weary be, my pupils then to see...

The grey-white sky does not depress my view:
Most beautiful of things do turn to grey...

When I shall die, in spring I will return
in budding maze of rainbow flowered plush...

My mirror cries, my mirror sighs
But mine are dry, too dry to cry...

Should twenty more of you and all the same
Proclaim that they are you and you for me...

Intricate ruby currents emanate from your pupils
diluted from a pool of spring rosy essences...

To whom would rush a wound from love, with love:
Let take a caution deep where your wound bleeds...

Take all the light until i'm out and deep
That I may linger where you rest in me...

If dreaming paths the way to where you are
Then why has none to you, so taken me...

When mind's own memoirs wither down to bone
then whom shall know my love in distant years...

I wonder which will greet me when I die;
The arch of angels or the scorching pit...